


The Great Nightbird and the Osprey

by Sad_eyed_lady



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M, Mostly fan of the novels so draws mainly from that, Slow Burn, playing fast and loose with history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23783494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sad_eyed_lady/pseuds/Sad_eyed_lady
Summary: One lonely soul finds a mirror in that of another.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. The House On the Lake

**Author's Note:**

> I am a history nerd, so this is a bit hard for me, but we have to pretend that the Paris Opera House (the Palais Garnier) was around in 1832, and Erik with it. So this is not only AU in terms of these novels, but in terms of our own history. There’s no other way for me to explore these characters together in the way that I want to. So, if you are willing to indulge me and accept that the Opera Ghost not only really existed, but existed in 1832, then we may begin!

It was the pain first. Éponine thought there would be no more pain, but here it had accompanied her even in death. Not only pain, but _quiet._ So much quiet and so much darkness—though her eyes were closed she could sense the darkness beyond her lids. 

She was breathing. The sharp pain that accompanied her every breath told her that. She was starting to think that perhaps she was not dead at all. She opened her eyes cautiously. She was in a dark room illuminated by a single candle somewhere outside her field of vision. And then she was aware that beneath her was a bed. A comfortable bed. More comfortable even than the one she had slept in back in the good days. Where was she? Where was Monsieur Marius? Had he survived too? For she knew now that she could not be dead. 

She tried to sit up to take in more of her surroundings but was stopped by the searing pain that exploded outward from her breast, as though she had been shot all over again. She fell back in the bed, unable to prevent a sharp scream of agony. She bit down on her lip. It wouldn’t do, making noise like that when she didn’t know where she was—or who else was around. 

After what seemed a long second or two, she heard the soft click of a door opening. A looming shadow on the ceiling was all that was visible to her, moving in the stealthy, noiseless way that Éponine knew as belonging to the Patron-Minette and other members of the dark underbelly of Paris, unknown to daylight. 

“Montparnasse?” she gasped out, trying to still the tremor in her voice. She’d studiedly avoided him ever since that night when he had coldly stood ready to cut her throat. And he, the closest she had to a friend. 

But the man’s voice that responded was not the hissing whisper of the murderous dandy. Not anything like it. It was strong and commanding in such a way that she knew whatever house she was in belonged to him. But there was a softness there, too. It handled her ears delicately, lingering in the air like the last note in a song. If ever a man’s voice could be called beautiful, this was it. 

“No, mademoiselle. It is Erik.” 

She didn’t know any Erik, but Gavroche has friends in the theatre, and this man’s voice had that musical quality to it. Perhaps this was one of them. She didn’t say anything, unsure of the situation and acutely aware that she was in no position to fight or run. That knowledge had her body seize and stiffen. 

Almost as though the voice knew her thoughts, he did not move closer, but hurriedly, in a reassuring tone, said: “Please don’t be frightened. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help you—see? I dressed your wounds for you. I’m not a doctor, but I have quite a range of skills, you see. I won’t hurt you. Don’t be frightened of Erik.” 

Éponine cautiously felt with her good hand. Under a clean nightdress which she felt impossibly tiny in, her chest was swathed in bandages. She tried again to sit, and suddenly the shadow swooped forward to help her. With extreme gentleness, the man eased another pillow behind her and helped her to sit up slightly. As he did this, she got her first good look at him. 

He was wearing a gentleman’s clothes. She noted a golden watch-chain swinging across his waistcoat. Well, of course he had money if he had a bed like this. What distinguished him from any other fine gentleman on the streets of Paris was the mask that he wore over his face. That, and the hands that so gently worked to sit her up in bed. The flesh was a strange, ill-looking colour, and the fingers were long and bony. Well, Éponine had seen stranger. Let him do what he liked as long as he didn’t try to hurt her. 

”And what is your name, mademoiselle?”

”Éponine.” She hesitated a half second. Oh, to hell with Jondrettes and Thenardiers and the rest. She wanted to be rid of the whole lot. “Just Éponine.” 

Her eyes took in the room. It was small but well-furnished, and it was warm and clean. Thus far, he had given her no cause to be alarmed, so she ventured to ask a question. “Where am I?”

”We are underneath the Opera House. Welcome, Mademoiselle Éponine, to my house by the lake.” 


	2. No Patience for Poetry, But Sympathy for Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are slight mentions of depression/suicidal themes. It doesn’t go too deep and if you know Éponine’s story in Les Mis (which you do, or why are you reading this) that’s about as far as I get into it. Still, always worth putting out that warning.

“Underneath the Opera House?” She knew of people who lurked in sewers and slept under bridges, but she hadn’t heard anything about the Opera House, really. “Can I see the lake?”

Although she could not see his face, she could feel his expression darken. “You must never see the exterior of Erik’s house on the lake. You must know as little as possible of it, for soon you will recover, and then you must leave and never return. You must forget poor Erik.”

Éponine shrugged her shoulders. He spoke of her recovery, and she did not feel dead, but the strangeness of all this made it worth asking. “I am alive, aren’t I, Monsieur?”

”Yes, alive. Wounded to the edge of death and yet more alive than anything else in my house on the lake. That is why you must leave it and never return. This is a place for death, Éponine. Live beings cannot stay here. They must always fly away.”

She knew these dramatic types. Like Monsieur Marius, or those passionate young gentlemen at the barricade. She found it charming then, but something about nearly dying caused her to lose her patience for poetry. ”You aren’t dead. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

”I have lived the life of a ghost despite being flesh and blood. Never mind, I am dying and will soon be dead.” 

”Are you ill?” 

“I am dying...of love.” 

“Oh.” She had no patience for poetry, but she had never been able to harden herself sufficiently to ignore someone who was sad. It was something that made her vulnerable, but she could not change it. She held out her weak hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he took it. 

”I wanted to die, you know. Lots of times. But the water was always too cold. I don’t like cold water. We used to live under the arches of bridges and the water was so sad. Still, I thought I might get over that one day, since I wanted to die so much, so I’d go and stand at the edge of the Seine very often and imagine what it would be like to never hurt or be hungry or frightened again. But sometimes I was just hungry and my thinking was funny. I’d eat something, and sometimes I would feel a little better about it all. Have you eaten lately, Monsieur?”

He seemed taken aback. “No.”

Éponine struggled to sit up further. “Not eating? When you have the money to do it? You should go and eat, Monsieur. You don’t look well. You look very thin.”

”Are you hungry?” 

She nodded. 

”Wait here. I’ll go and get you something to eat.” 

”And yourself, Monsieur? If you don’t, I won’t eat either.” She thought that probably wasn’t true. She was so hungry she would not be able to resist the food only to help a sad, dramatic man in a mask. But he seemed to believe her.

”Yes, we will eat together.” 


	3. A Shared Meal Improves Everything

They shared a simple meal, during which they talked very little. Much as she thought she was hungry, Éponine found she was not able to eat much. She was still too weak. 

Erik turned his head away from her whenever he lifted his black mask in order to take a bite of food. She didn’t think too much of it. Claquesous always wore a mask; it made sense if one did not wish to be identified. And this Erik obviously did not, as his intention was that she should leave and forget him. As soon as a few minutes had passed during which Éponine took no more food, Erik stood from the chair he had pulled to her bedside and cleared away the tray. She stopped him with a question before he could leave the room. 

“Did you eat enough Monsieur?” She didn’t want him to stop on her account.

He turned back to face her. “Yes.”

“And do you feel better now?”

He hesitated for a long moment, contemplating her from behind his mask. Then he sighed deeply. “My wounds cannot be healed with food, Mademoiselle Éponine.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not, but if you ain’t hungry anymore, you can’t say things aren’t a little better, right?”

He let out his breath in a way Éponine would have sworn was a sort of laugh. “Goodnight. I shall return to check on you in the morning.” 

Éponine frowned. She had a lot of questions she still wanted to ask, but she supposed she was tired, and they weren’t anything that couldn’t wait. “See you in the morning, Monsieur Erik.”

* * *

Éponine fell immediately into a sound sleep. She was awakened by the sound of an organ playing. It was mournful tune that sounded like one unbroken sob. It brought tears to her eyes which she quickly put a stop to. She pulled the quilt over her head and quickly dropped back into sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter is all I have time for right now, but I‘m trying to update as frequently as possible. I’m quite nervous so if you can leave me a review that will help so much!! Thank you for reading.


	4. In Need of Help From An Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This involves infection. Nothing too gruesome but probably not for the very very squeamish.

Éponine awoke with the knowledge that she was going to throw up. She hated throwing up. It happened quite often because she would eat something suspect, or eat too much too quickly whenever she got the opportunity. She tried to get out of bed, but only succeeded in falling to the floor. She emptied her stomach there.

Erik came in; if not alerted by the small thud of her body hitting the floor than certainly by the retching. 

He said nothing and made no move to touch her, but she could feel so strongly his presence, and there was something comforting in it. Éponine finished and leaned her head weakly against the side of the bed. She had no strength at all. 

Erik lifted her easily, as though she were nothing but a feather or a piece of paper, and set her back into the bed. He fussed with the covers as he tucked her back in. She grabbed for his wrist to get his attention, even though she could not quite grip.

”I’m dying.”

“You will get well.” He said decisively. “Something has upset your stomach.”   
  
She was seized with a violent shaking. Her pain was so intense and she hardly had the strength to speak. “I need a doctor. I’m so cold.” There had been an incident once where a man was injured in a fight at her father’s inn. He’d begged for a doctor, but her father would not send for one. He did not want the police to get involved. Her mother had roughly tended the man, pressing Éponine into service to assist. At first it had seemed he would be all right, but infection had soon set in. He died, and she never knew what her father did with the body. The man was from out of town and nothing ever came of it. That was the first time Éponine had seen her father cross from cheating and stealing a little here and there to far more terrifying crimes. And she knew that she needed a doctor.

“Please,” she murmured. “I was ready to die...but I’m not sure now...” 

Erik waved something under her nose and she knew nothing after that.

She awoke, still shaking and feeling ill in her stomach. She was in so much pain, and her head felt funny like someone had given her something. She felt so fuzzy, but she could hear men’s voices and she knew there was another besides Erik. There was a hand on her forehead, and a stern voice saying, “She’s burning up. What have you done?” 

”I haven’t done anything. I saved her life. I brought her here to recover, and then I was going to let her go free.”

”The girl needs a doctor, and even then she may die. I will send for one.” 

“No you will not, daroga. No one may come to my house on the lake.”

”Except the young girls whom you choose to steal away and hold against their will?”

“I warn you, my dear daroga: if you try to defy me, I shall forget that I am the one who brought you here, and shall suppose you an intruder. You think you know the horrors Erik is capable of?” He laughed darkly. “You cannot even imagine what I will dream up for you, my dear daroga. I wouldn’t want to bore you with what you have already seen before.” 

”Erik?” Éponine’s voice was so faint she did not even know if they would hear her. But she felt Erik’s cold, boney fingers on her own. 

“Do not fear, Éponine. I have called an old friend of mine who thought I was dead, and he is angry with me for that reason. It is a small argument, nothing to be frightened over.”   
  
“Is he...a doctor?” 

”No, he was chief of police in his country. Now he lives in Paris and pokes his nose where it isn’t wanted.”

She couldn’t help the jolt of panic that the word “police” always sent through her.

”You came and fetched me here, Erik.” The man sounded at the edge of exasperation. “Now what do you want me to do, if I may not send for a doctor?”

”Please...I...I want a doctor.”

Erik’s hand was reassuring on her own, but he addressed the other man. “You must take her to a doctor. Or take her back to your flat and send for a doctor from there.”

”She is in no condition to be moved.”   
  
“Oh daroga, daroga! You won’t help a wounded girl? And you, always so concerned over who cut the chandelier, and with who killed Count Phillipe, and with what Erik might do to precious humanity? You, daroga? Will not help a living girl?” 

She heard the other man answer with an tired sigh. “Her blood will be on your hands, Erik.” 

“I am confident you will not let that happen, because you will ensure that she is alive when I come to collect her.” 

”I thought you said you would let her go?”   
  


”She must recover here. Now no more arguing with me. I shall carry her to your carriage, and then I shall leave you to seek a doctor’s care.”   
  


Éponine felt Erik’s arms effortlessly lifting her again, and she tipped back into unconsciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has shown support so far! It means the world to me.


	5. Blissful Delirium And Unanswered Mysteries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s been a little while since I’ve updated! I plan to do it more frequently. Small warning for some substance use; it’s the 19th century so of course they’re gonna give her some laudanum.

Éponine fell in and out of sleep as the doctor came and went. He would put poultices on her wounds and give her a bitter syrup which would send her floating off into sleep again. She heard him say that the abundance of pus was a wonderful sign and they must by all means encourage it. Then the next day she heard him say that she might lose her hand. A strong-armed servant woman would come in and bathe her with abrupt efficiency, and pour broth down her throat. For the first time in her life Éponine did not want to eat, but she forced it down. Then, she would much more readily accept more of that glorious brown liquid that sent her into such blissful delirium.   
  
She was in the flat of the foreign looking man whom Erik had called daroga, but she did not see much of him. He would come in about once a day to see how she was getting on, and he was always very kind and polite. But he largely gave her her privacy, and she very much appreciated that.

Each night she believed Erik was there, but come morning she could not say whether it had been a dream. For a very long time she also did not know for sure how many days it had been, or whether she was becoming better or worse.   
  


Mercifully, she began to recover slowly but surely. Soon she could sit up and look out the window at the Tuileries Gardens. They would not give her as much of the medicine anymore, even though she really liked it. It was better than alcohol, she thought, which she had never been able to afford very much of.   
  


She did not lose her hand, though it healed badly and it was of nearly no use to her. An angry looking, raised pink line screamed across the top of her breast. She shuddered at how close it had come to her heart. She knew she also had a scar on her back, where the musket ball had exited.

And then one night, Éponine awoke to find that she was being lifted out of the bed. She was so afraid she could not even make a sound. In response, no doubt, to the fact that her body has stiffened in terror, the arms quickly restored her to her place in the bed. 

”It is only Erik.” He spoke softly as though he did not wish to be overheard. “I have come to take you back to the house on the lake to finish your recovery. I have a carriage waiting outside.” He paused, then added: “But only if you wish to come.”   
  


Éponine paused to consider. She did not want to impose too much on the hospitality of the foreign gentleman, whose goodwill she had really been thrust upon. She still did not know how she had come to be in the mysterious house on the lake; there were a lot of questions she still wanted answered. But she did know that Erik had never hurt her, and for his own reasons which she could not understand, he wanted to take her back. She knew enough of men to sense that he did not want her for base and selfish reasons. She felt safe with him, even with all the unanswered questions.

”If I change my mind, would you let me leave?”

”Of course,” he said quickly. “I do not intend that you should stay forever, only until you recover. And if you want to leave before you are well, it is not my right to prevent you.”   
  


“Then I will go.” She insisted that she could walk just fine, but when she tried to stand she found she was still a little weak, and had to lean quite heavily on Erik’s arm. As he hurried them through the flat, it suddenly struck her as odd that they should be leaving under cover of night.   
  


“Does the gentleman know I am leaving with you?”

”I sent him a letter that he should receive tomorrow.”

”But why not come during the day and just tell him face to face?”

”Because the daroga, while I suppose I would call him my friend, likes to meddle in my affairs. He often misunderstands things.”

It really made little difference to Éponine what time they left, so she let the matter drop.   
  


Erik helped her into the carriage and instructed the driver to take them to the opera house. Éponine quickly decided that she would use the ride to ask him one of her many, many questions. She settled on the root of all of this: how she had come to be in his care. 

“Oh, because I found you, bleeding, outside of the opera house during one of my nightly walks.”

Éponine shook her head. “I couldn’t have been there. I was shot in the Rue Chanvrerie. That’s too far away.”

”Were you? Fascinating. So how did you come to be outside of my opera house?”

They were both silent, neither having an answer. All Éponine could come up with was that she must have been moved there by someone. But why?

”And now, may I ask you a question?”

Éponine hesitated. “It depends on what the question is.”

”How came you to be shot in the Rue Chanvrerie?”

”We were all supposed to die there. It was a barricade. I don’t know, something about liberty and equality.”

”Why were you there getting shot, if you don’t know?”

“No, Monsieur; that’s a different question.” Éponine laughed a little. “We each get one for this carriage ride.” 


	6. A Very Odd Man

Erik waited for the carriage to disappear into the night before ushering Éponine toward a grate. 

She shook her head. “I don’t want to go into the sewer.” There were too many bad memories in that setting, and she did not want to run into anyone whom she no longer wished to know.   
  


“This does not lead to the sewer. It’s only meant to look that way.”

He shoved the grate open and hesitated. “I suppose you are too weak to climb. Are your arms strong enough to hold around my neck?” He turned around, meaning for her to hold to his back.   
  


She reached up, swaying on her feet. He was much taller than her. She could get her arms around, but the hold was very weak and she felt instantly exhausted.   
  


Erik gave a thoughtful hum and pulled a sort of rope out of his sleeve. Éponine realised with a slight shiver that it was a noose. He bent down to allow her to get onto his back, then the bound them together with the rope so that even if her hold weakened she would remain there. Then he began to descend a rusty ladder that led down into the darkness, closing the grate behind them.   
  


They reached the bottom and he untied her, sliding the rope back into his sleeve. She clung to his arm to steady herself.   
  


“If you get tired, I can carry you. You weigh nothing.”

She huffed. “I may be skinny, but I’m plenty strong when I haven’t been getting over an infection.”

”I never said you weren’t. You were very strong indeed to survive.”

There was an opening into a hallway at the bottom of the long shaft they had just climbed down. It would not be visible from above. Supporting her with his arm, Erik led her into it. They went some way in the pitch dark before he picked up a dark lantern laying on the ground. He had to be very familiar with this place to know just where that would be. He slid it open so that it emitted some light, and they continued on their way. It was cold, and Éponine was still wearing the thin, too-large nightgown. She shivered.   
  


Erik misunderstood her shiver and said, “I apologise for the rats.”

She had not even noticed the rodents scurrying out of their way. She laughed. “These look like mice compared to the ones in that dump Old Gorbeau called a tenement.”

Erik stopped walking and tilted his head. “You’re quite poor, aren’t you?”   
  


Éponine squared her tiny shoulders with pride. “I take care of myself. I know my way around and I know ways and ways of getting food.”

”I’m sure you do.” There was something she could not identify in his voice. Soft and melancholy.  
  
At long last they reached the end of the tunnel and Éponine was startled to look down and see water at her feet. Was this the lake? Erik was busy shining the lantern around until he found a rope, which he began to pull. Éponine could not help but notice that his black evening coat concealed powerful muscles. He pulled until a boat came into view, and he jumped in and waited for it to stabilise before reaching out black-gloved hand to help Éponine in. She settled herself against the cushions, and Erik began to row.   
  


They seemed to be heading straight towards a wall, but as they approached it they turned a corner that could not be seen from far away. A heavy iron gate lifted as they approached, then came back down behind them. Éponine could not have told how. And then there was a house, built into the stone but made of brick and just as ordinary as any house Éponine had ever seen. There was a cozy glow of lamplit windows. Erik jumped onto the rocky shore of the lake and helped Éponine out as well.   
  
She took a good look around. “I thought you said I must never see the outside of your house?”

Erik sighed. “I do not believe you will wish to come back at the end of your time here. But if you did, I would not try to stop you.”

Éponine did not know what that meant or how she ought to feel about it. She allowed Erik to help her into the house. It was such an ordinary house, and she gawked openly at the richly panelled walls and fancy curtains and the fine carved wood furniture. She couldn’t tell what made her gawk more: the richness of the place or the fact that it was underground. 

He led her down a dimly lit hallway to the bedroom she had first awoken in. It had pale green walls and furniture of a warm reddish wood. The floor was carpeted with a thick, elaborate rug. It was brightly lit now with several lamps, and there was a cheerful basket of flowers on the dressing table. He seated her down in a comfortable upholstered chair.   
  


“I suppose you will want to sleep?”

Éponine nodded.   
  


Erik strode across the room to a tall wardrobe, which he opened to reveal many lady’s clothes. It struck Éponine as very odd, but she did not say anything.

”There are other nightgowns in here if you wish to change. I will check how you are doing in the morning and have breakfast ready.”

Éponine thanked him and waited for the door to close before shakily getting to her feet and padding across the room to the brimming wardrobe. It was filled with silks and lace and fine, soft wool, all fit for Monsieur Marius’s beautiful young lady. The quality was better even than anything she had worn in her childhood, when she had been her Maman’s precious little doll.

Who was this man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have time, I really appreciate comments. This is kind of an unusual ship so it’s nice to know that others are here for it haha.


	7. Do Not Speak of Ugliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning of some mentions of domestic abuse. Emotional and physical. It’s the Thenadiers, no getting around it.

Éponine was actually relieved that the nightgown did not fit her. She wasn’t foolish enough to really think he would have bought the clothes for her. But she knew there were girls who were taken in by rich men who set them up in a little flat and dressed them in finery and lavished them with gifts. It could never last though, and sooner or later the girl would be out on the street again, worse off than before, because now she’d had the taste of a comfortable life and perhaps even—horror of all horrors—a child or two. That was what her Maman thought must have happened to little Cosette’s mother. 

Her father used to get drunk and tell her that if she wasn’t so goddamn ugly, she could go be a rich man’s mistress and all their problems would be over. If she just wasn’t so goddamn ugly and skinny. The first time, her Maman had snapped back that maybe if they had some food for once instead of spending it all on his drinking... Enraged, her father had popped her a good one across the mouth. After that, Maman had only stared into the fire, dry-eyed, letting the verbal abuse rain down on Éponine. 

So as Éponine looked down at the fresh nightgown barely hanging onto her skinny little frame, she wasn’t foolish enough to think that Erik had purchased all of these fine clothes for her, but she was relieved that he had not. Of course, that led her to wonder whose they were, but she didn’t mind too much about that, for she was very tired. She was grateful to crawl under the crisp white quilt and sink herself into the plush, feathery bed. 

* * *

She was awoken by the sound of the organ. Her bleary eyes glanced around for a window to get an idea of what time it was, but of course there wasn’t one. Then she noticed a clock on the wall. 4 o’clock. She knew she had not slept very long, so that had to be in the morning. She groaned and pulled the covers back over her head. Erik obviously was not used to living with another person, and years of fear and often sleeping outside to avoid her home had made Éponine a light sleeper. It was, she thought, a bad combination, and she longed for some of that wonderful medicine to send her back to sleep. But soon enough, her tiredness did the trick.   
  


* * *

When she next awoke, it was at the much more respectable hour of eight o’clock. Erik was knocking at her door.   
  


“Come in.”

He entered with a tray. Coffee and some porridge and bread. She accepted it gratefully. He hovered uncertainly. “Shall I leave you? Do you need anything?”

”Please stay. I don’t like being alone.”

Erik seemed to relax, and he pulled a chair over to her bedside.   
  


“Did you sleep well?”

”Yes,” she lied. “Did you?”

”Yes.” But she knew that he was also lying. 

They sat in silence until she had finished her breakfast. 

“Perhaps you are feeling well enough that you would like to sit in the parlour?” Erik finally ventured.   
  
Having spent so long in bed, Éponine thought she would like that very much.   
  


Erik gestured to the wardrobe. “You should find what you need in there. This room has a bathroom attached, which is for your own use. I will be waiting outside if you need anything.” He took the tray with him and left.   
  


Éponine stood. She was still rather weak, but felt better every day. She went to the wardrobe and found a long cotton chemise, which she exchanged the nightgown for. Then some stockings, which unfortunately did not fit her legs very well. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn stockings. Next, a plain cotton corset. Whoever it was made for would have been trim of figure but with plenty of softness and curve. The shoulder straps did not fit snugly and the gussets in the front gaped, embarrassingly not even half full. After a moment’s thought, Éponine stuffed some extra stockings in to round it out, pleased with the figure it gave her. She put on a petticoat, but it wanted to slide off of her, so she had to belt it with some ribbon she found. Then she found the plainest dress she could, which was a green plaid with wide sleeves and a scooped neck that threatened to come off her shoulders. She supposed it was supposed to swing teasingly around her ankles, but instead it hung limp past her feet. It was too long for her and wanted more petticoats to hold it out, but she could barely keep the one on. Despite the ill fit (she had not seen a single mirror in the house, but she knew the effect must have been rather like a little girl wearing her mother’s clothes) it felt good to have so many layers of clothing on. She always felt so self-conscious and exposed in the rags she had worn which barely covered her body. Now, she felt something like a lady.   
  
But the stockings kept falling down, so she did dispense with those.   
  


She started to leave the room, but realised her hair must be a mess. She found a brush on a dressing table—yet no mirror, which was odd. She pulled it through her gnarled dark hair, gritting her teeth at the pain. She finally managed to get the knots out, though it was still frizzy and dull-looking. She had no idea what to do with it, so she simply braided it over her shoulder and left the room to go find Erik.   
  


She followed the sound of piano into the parlour. Erik was sitting there playing, his back to the door. She walked over and stood beside him, and although she was not trying to be sneaky, her movements were innately cat-like, and he was startled when he looked up. He instinctively clutched at his mask, as though afraid she would take it from him. The idea had not occurred to her. 

”How long have you been there?”

”I just came in.” She leaned against the piano. “I liked that. I love music.”

”Do you?”

She nodded vigourously and began to sing a vaudeville tune: “ _J’ai faim, mon père, pas de fricot. J’ai froid, mon mère, pas de tricot. Grelotte, lolotte! Sanglote, Jacquot.”_

Erik gave her a forced smile that made her blush. She knew her voice was not very good. He paused a moment then said, “You could use some musical training, but there is an interesting dark tone to your voice. I think we could bring it out more and you could be a decent singer.”

Well, that was better than she could have hoped for.   
  
“I can’t sing much, but I can read, Monsieur. And write.”

He gave her an amused smile. “I’m sure you can. But now let us sit down and have another cup of coffee.” He led her to two chairs that flanked a merry fireplace. It was so odd that all of this was underground. He poured her some very strong coffee. She had never tasted anything like it before. “Now. I want you to tell me how you came to be shot.”

Éponine put her coffee down. “Not fair.”

”What?”

”I haven’t asked you any personal questions. All I asked was about how I got here.”

”That’s true enough.” Erik turned his head and lifted his mask to sip his coffee. “But you must have questions.”

Éponine thought for a moment. “No, not really.”

Erik seemed almost offended by that. “No? You find yourself in a comfortable little house underground with a masked man and you have no questions about him?”

”No.”

”No?!”

”It’s no good asking too many questions. It’s safer to mind my own business.”   
  
Erik put down his coffee and stared at the wall for a moment. “You don‘t wonder why I wear a mask?”

Éponine shrugged. “I suppose you have something to hide. It’s none of my business.”

Erik did not seem to know what to say to that. “I thought all women were inquisitive.”

”Curiosity only gets you into trouble.”

Erik was silent. Finally he said: “I will tell you something about me if you tell me why you were shot.”

Éponine crossed her arms. “I told you, there was a barricade. We were all going to die.”

”But you obviously did not subscribe to their cause. I saw something of it in the paper and from that I think I understand their cause better than you did.”

Éponine picked her coffee back up and sipped it thoughtfully. “The boy I was in love with was there.”

”Ah. I understand that.”

Éponine looked down into the deep brown of the coffee. “I suppose you do. You said you were dying of love.”

”And did he love you?”

Éponine had to fight back a tear. Not because of Marius—she was starting to think she only loved him because he was kind to her, but because of how alone and unloved she really was. It hurt to admit it. ”No.”

”Why not?”

”Because he was in love with a beautiful young lady,” she said in a thick, low voice. “And I’m not a lady. I tell lies. And I’m a thief. And I drink when I can. And I’m ugly.”

”You are _not_ ugly.” Erik’s voice was firm and decisive.

”I am.” To her great shame, a tear splashed into her coffee cup. She quickly put it down and cleared her throat. “When I was dying, I asked him. I said, ‘you thought I was ugly, didn’t you?’”

”And what did he say?”

”He said nothing, he was a kind boy. But he looked at me always with annoyance and revulsion. And worst of all pity.”

”You, mademoiselle, do not know ugliness.”

Éponine rubbed a fist over her eyes. “Anyway, I wanted us to die together there. But then I saw a musket aimed at him. And that wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to die before me. So I stopped it with my hand. I put my hand right over the barrel.”   
  


Erik shuddered and glanced at her mangled left hand.  
  


“And it came out my back. And then I almost couldn’t cry out to him, I was so weak. And I thought the last thing I knew would be the cold stones. But he heard me, and he was good enough to hold me. I asked him to kiss me on the forehead after I died. I don’t know if he did. I told him I would feel it, but I didn’t. But do you know the funny thing about it, monsieur? I don’t think I loved him after all. I just think no one was kind to me for so long that I thought I was in love. I used to follow him and watch him and do little things for him. I don’t know if he knew half the time. But I don’t think that’s love after all. I think I was just obsessed with him and thought I was in love because the world was never kind to me.”

Erik stood up quickly and turned his back to her, facing the fire.

”Monsieur?”

”Nothing, I just got a chill and wanted to be close to the fire.” But his voice sounded strained. After a moment, he sat back down, seeming composed once more. “You are not ugly, mademoiselle Éponine. You don’t know what ugliness is.”

”I wasn’t ugly when I was a little girl. I was a very pretty little girl. But then we were so poor and I ate so little I looked like an old woman. And I was dirty all the time, even though I tried to keep clean.”

Erik seemed to realise something. “You haven’t seen yourself since you arrived here, have you? You’ve been in bed for a couple of weeks, you probably haven’t seen a mirror.” 

Éponine tilted her head at him. “No.”

He got up and walked to a desk drawer. He rummaged around for a while before pulling out a small mirror. He passed it to her. “I don’t have many mirrors around, but take a look.”

She hardly recognised herself. Even though she had not eaten much, her face had some colour to it and the bones were not so starkly defined. Her lips were no longer rough and chapped, and she thought her hair looked a little shinier too, if only because the dirt was gone. There was light in her eyes as well. She was not strikingly beautiful, but she was not ugly either. She smiled and started to hand the mirror back, but he told her to keep it.   
  


“I do not want to hear you talk again of being ugly. You have not asked why I wear a mask, but I shall tell you. It is because my face is so horrible, so revolting, that I am not fit for human society. Even my poor mother could not look at me. The first piece of clothing she made for me was my first mask. She never even let me kiss her. So do not talk to me of being ugly.”

Éponine was struck with pity. “It can’t be that bad.”

”It is.”

Éponine stood. “I’m not scared of anything. Let me see.” 


	8. Never Ready for Any of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of Éponine’s miserable past. A lot of it is straight from the brick but I elaborated and added a few things.

Erik took a step backwards. “No.”   
  


Éponine crossed her arms. “I don’t think it could be that bad.”  
  


“And that shows you are not ready to see. Because you cannot even imagine how bad it really is. I am a monster, Éponine.” 

Éponine stuck out her chin defiantly, and her eyes crackled with a dangerous light. “I am not ready? Perhaps not. But that has not stopped anyone before. I wasn’t ready for almost anything that has happened in my life, and I am only 17 years old.” 

Erik’s posture softened a little, and Éponine did not know what made her continue. She was so angry, and it really wasn’t about the mask at all.   
  


“I wasn’t ready to be thrown into a rowdy place full of drunken men, but that is where I was born and that is where I grew up. I wasn’t ready for my family to lose everything and be turned out on the streets. I wasn’t ready for my father to drag us to Paris on foot in the freezing rain. I wasn’t ready for Maman’s love to turn cold. I wasn’t ready for her to sell my baby brothers—she sold them, Monsieur! I wasn’t ready for my other little brother to choose the streets and for me to never know if he was all right. And he was at the barricade too. He took care of himself always, so I hope he made it out. But I don’t know. And I’m not ready for that.”   
  
She was crying now, and she hated it, but she continued on because she had never, never voiced these things before. “I wasn’t ready for my father to involve me in all of his illegal schemes. I wasn’t ready for him to beat me, sometimes when I deserved it and sometimes when I didn’t. I wasn’t ready for him to say things that hurt me even more. And I wasn’t ready for my Maman to sit there like it wasn’t happening. I wasn’t ready to be thrown in the clink with Maman and my little sister. I wasn’t ready for Montparnasse to make me think we were friends. I wasn’t ready because I’d never had a real friend before and didn’t know what it was supposed to be like. I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to treat me worse than my father did and try to force me to do things I didn’t want to do. I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to kill people and brag to me about how he did it.

“But I did know that he wasn’t supposed to coldly offer to slit my throat like I was nothing. And I wasn’t ready for that. He offered to slit my throat to my own father, Monsieur. And my father? He said nothing. Because to him, I am nothing. I wasn’t ready for any of that! And there is so, so much more I could tell you about things I wasn’t ready for. You tell me, Monsieur, not to speak to you of ugliness? Well then, do not speak to me of monsters, because _I. Know. Monsters_. And you really have no idea.”   
  


She drew in a shaky breath, then turned and hurried out of the room, tripping on that ridiculous dress. She went back to the bedroom and closed the door. She threw herself facedown on the bed and let herself have a good cry. Why had she said all of that? And why had she let herself cry in front of him? She dug the nails of her good hand into the flesh of the opposite arm, and didn’t care if it left a mark. She could not believe she had allowed herself to be so weak. 

After a few moments, there was a soft knock at the door. She didn’t answer it, but she sat up on her knees, face towards the headboard of the bed, away from the door. She took a deep breath and stopped her tears, setting her face in an emotionless mask. 

”Éponine? If you tell me to go away, I will. But if you do not, I shall open this door.” 

She said nothing.   
  


“I am opening the door.” He gave her another second, and then she heard it open.   
  


She heard the sound of the chair being pulled close to her bed. She did not turn.   
  


“Éponine,” he said gently. “Thank you. I know it is...not easy to talk about things like that.”   
  


She relaxed a little and slowly turned herself to face him.   
  


“I myself prefer to forget my past. I have been wronged, as you have, but cannot say my own hands as clean as yours.” 

Éponine swallowed. She didn’t know what to say.

”I think you are wrong about me. I think, even taking your experiences into account, I would qualify as a monster. I have done things many would consider heinous crimes. I do not think of them that way. But I have had a lot of time to reflect, and I suppose others might argue that the fact I do not consider my actions to be crimes makes me all the more monstrous.”   
  


Éponine swallowed again. “I don’t really care what you may have done, because you have been nothing but kind and gentle with me.” She laughed a little. “Maybe that makes me a bit of a monster.” 

Erik gave her a sad smile and a thoughtful hum. They were silent a moment, each contemplating their own monstrousness. Then Erik spoke again: “I do not wish to show you my face, not because I don’t think you can handle it. I know you are a strong girl. It’s because of my own fear.”   
  


“What are you afraid of?”

”That you will recoil in horror and want to leave. Or worse, you will pretend not to mind it at all, even though you do. That happened before, you see. She told me it was not so bad. She even burnt my mask to show me. But all the while she was disgusted by me, and the softest emotion she felt was only pity. She made me think she didn’t mind so I would let her go, and she plotted to run off with the boy she really loved.”   
  


“That’s cruel,” Éponine said. “I would never do that. I would be honest.”   
  


“But you see? How could I ever trust you if you say you do not mind? Because Christine pretended the very same.”   
  


Éponine chewed her lip thoughtfully, finally answering honestly: “I don’t know.”   
  


They sat once again in silence. Finally, Éponine spoke again: “You don’t have to show me your face until you’re ready. And when you do, I promise I’ll be honest with you. And Erik? You are _not_ a monster. I don’t care what you have done, and I don’t care what others have called you.”   
  


He pulled out a handkerchief and turned away, making a pretext of blowing his nose. But Éponine had seen that his eyes were wet behind the mask.   
  


He turned back around and gave her a genuine smile. Changing the subject, he said, “You look lovely, mademoiselle, but we need to get you some clothes that actually fit.”

Éponine’s face reddened, and she tugged the dress into place where it had fallen off her shoulder.  
  


He stood up. “Do you want a few minutes alone, or will you join me in the parlour? I could play the piano for you.”   
  


Éponine nodded and stood up. She gave him a teasing smile and said, “I promise not to sing.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just for the record, Éponine says sometimes she deserved it and sometimes she didn’t... That’s just her internalising the abuse. NO ONE EVER DESERVES TO BE BEATEN. I just want to make that clear. Now is as good a time as any to give the disclaimer that the things these poor tortured babies say are not necessarily the views of the author. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	9. Nocturnal Concerts and Melodrama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like things got more serious and angsty there for a bit. This chapter is much more fun. Also, Erik is the worst roommate.

Every single night. He played the organ every single night. Always a long time after she’d gone to bed. She supposed he did that so as not to bother her. He probably thought it wouldn’t wake her up if she was deep enough in sleep. She groaned and smashed the pillow down over her head, but it did nothing to block the sound. 

Besides annoyance that it interrupted her own sleep (and she _was_ annoyed, make no mistake), she was also worried for him. There was no way he got enough sleep. He often seemed very tired during the day, but when she asked him if he slept well, he always lied. Which proved that he didn’t know she was awakened by his nocturnal concerts. 

She couldn’t take it anymore. She got out of bed. She was wearing a plain cotton nightgown that actually fit. She had hesitantly allowed him to buy her a few clothes, but she insisted they be as plain as possible. She wrapped herself in her new woollen shawl, which was long and rectangular and very warm. And she marched to his room, where the organ was coming from. She had never been inside it before. She hesitated only a second before knocking. She waited, but the playing continued. There was no way he could hear her over the sound of that monstrous instrument. She took a deep breath and opened the door. 

All his talk of this being a place for the dead and not the living prepared her plenty for what she saw, so that she was not in the least bit surprised. The walls were all hung with black, and there was an open coffin beneath the canopy instead of a bed. Éponine rolled her eyes. 

The massive instrument took up an entire wall, and Erik’s entire attention was focused on it. He had not heard the door open. 

“Erik?” 

He continued to play. 

“Erik?” She walked over and gently nudged his arm. “Erik?”   
  


He jumped and looked at her, wide-eyed. He was still dressed for the day and still wearing his mask. Or already dressed. She couldn’t tell whether he had never gone to bed at all or whether he had risen at—as the clock told her when she left her room—three in the morning.   
  


“Éponine! Did I wake you?” He seemed entirely bewildered at the very idea.   
  


She gave a wry smile. “It’s all right. I’m used to it by now. You wake me every night.”

Erik looked at the organ as though it had betrayed them both. “My deepest apologies. I had no idea. I thought since you were already asleep it wouldn’t wake you. I’m so used to living alone. I’m very sorry Éponine.” 

“I don’t really mind about that. I’m just worried that you aren’t sleeping.”

”I sleep when I’m tired. I don’t need much sleep.” 

”Everyone needs sleep. Lots of sleep. Believe me, I know. There were lots of times when I stayed up all night wandering the streets by myself. I didn’t want to go home and I was scared what would happen to me if I slept. I always felt awful the next morning. When you don’t sleep much you get used to it, but you never know how bad you really feel until you finally get some sleep again and notice what a difference it makes. Why do you think the nighttime is so long? It’s because people need that much sleep.” 

Erik huffed. “Well it’s different for me.”

”No it isn’t. You’re a man, Erik. You’re just like anybody else. You need sleep.” 

She didn’t know why, but that really seemed to soften him. He nodded and mumbled in agreement.

”Do you sleep there?” She pointed to the coffin.

”Yes. Do you find it horrifying?”

She tilted her head and regarded it thoughtfully. “No. But I sort of wonder why.” 

“It helps me get used to eternity.”   
  


Éponine restrained an eye-roll. She saw he was looking at her for a reaction. Gavroche did that a lot; he would say something shocking and wait for her to react. She didn’t play those kind of games. Instead, she walked over to the coffin and climbed inside.   
  


“What are you doing?”   
  


“It’s awfully uncomfortable. This cushioning is made for a dead person who can’t feel it.”   
  


She heard no response from Erik.

”Do you close the lid?” 

“No. I still need to breathe.” 

“You can’t really roll over in here,” Éponine complained. “I like to sleep on my side or my stomach. And I like to stretch my arms and legs a bit. There’s no room for that in here.”

”Can you please get out of my bed?” 

Éponine climbed out of the coffin. “No wonder you don’t feel like sleeping. It’s not very comfortable in there.” 

“It’s not meant to be comfortable.” 

”No,” she agreed. “It’s meant for a dead person. And you, Monsieur, are not dead yet. Come on, get changed.” She turned around. 

“Are you going to leave?” 

”No, because if I do you won’t go to bed, will you?” 

He grunted in acquiescence. 

“Just tell me when I can turn around.” 

A few minutes later, he told her he was finished. He was wearing a nightshirt and a long dark red dressing gown. 

She nodded in approval. “Now come with me.”

”What? Where?”

”To sleep in a proper bed.” 

”Oh—no. That isn’t... We cannot...”

Éponine frowned at him. “I’m not suggesting anything indecent. Come on.” 

Erik continued to look flustered and worried as Éponine dragged him towards her room. She went to the wardrobe where she had seen some extra pillows, and she laid them out like a wall down the middle of the bed. “Now you keep to your side, and I’ll keep to mine.” She climbed into bed and patted the other side for him to do the same.

He reluctantly untied his dressing gown and hung it over the bedpost before sliding uncertainly into his side. He still looked terrified. 

Éponine blew out the lamp and settled down into her pillow. After a moment, she asked, “Do you normally sleep with your mask on?” 

“No.” 

“You could take it off. It’s dark. I won’t see anything.” 

”But what if you wake up and it frightens you?”

”What if I wake up already frightened because I forget why there is a man in my bed? I’m not really worried.” 

Erik hesitated a moment and then said, “All right.” 

Éponine pulled the quilt up to her eyes, wondering if his face could possibly be as bad as he insisted it was. She lay awake until she heard his breathing slow and even out, and then she, too drifted off to sleep, a smile on her lips. 


	10. The Comfortable Life

Éponine woke up and immediately looked around for the clock. It was half past nine. She sat up, and that’s when she remembered she wasn’t alone. Erik was laying on his side, facing the other way from her, and from the sound of his breathing he was still very much asleep. She was glad; he needed the rest, no matter what he said. 

It was then that her eye was drawn to the mask on the table. She briefly considered peeking at his face, just to see what he could possibly think was so horrifying that he had to hide it away from everyone. But it didn’t feel right to look while he was sleeping. 

She stretched and contemplated what she should do. She was never the first one up. She should make breakfast, probably. He always had something ready for her. She pushed herself out of bed and padded quietly across the floor. Thankfully they had left the door open last night, so that was one less thing she had to worry about when it came to not waking him.   
  


She made her way down the hall to the kitchen. She shivered a little in her nightgown and bare feet. It was funny how quickly her body had gotten unused to having so few layers of clothes. Before, it wouldn’t have been unusual for her to wear little more than this outside on a cold day. As she got the fire going in the stove, she realised with a frown that she would have to get used to the streets again soon enough. He always said she would go away once she recovered. Well, this wasn’t the time to think about that. Éponine had always been very strict with herself not to worry past the current day, maybe the day after that. 

So when she heard his footsteps in the hallway, she was humming to herself and slathering thick gobs of creamy butter onto delightfully thick slices of bread, marvelling at the smell of coffee in the air. She would never get tired of having so much food. 

Erik was wearing his mask and dressing gown, and he looked like he wasn’t fully awake. Éponine greeted him happily and poured him a cup of coffee.

”How long have you been awake?”   
  
She shrugged. “Only a little while. Did you sleep well?”

He nodded groggily. “I don’t think I’ve slept so deeply in a long time.” 

”I didn’t see your face,” she told him, because she knew he was probably worried about it.

She watched the tension leave his shoulders at that. 

And so they would go to bed every night like that. Once he was caught up from all of his nearly sleepless nights, he was once more always up before her. Éponine had never been a morning person.

He played her music and taught her to play chess. He always won; she didn’t mind. Strategy wasn’t her thing and she wasn’t trying much. He showed her many amusing illusions. Neither of them ever asked one another about their pasts, which was part of why they got on so well. They understood that some things are best forgotten.

Even though she’d told him she wouldn’t sing anymore, she couldn’t help it. She sang constantly as she moved about the house, and under her breath while waiting for him to make his move at chess. She sometimes caught him smiling at the sound of her singing. Not in a mean way—almost fondly. 

Sometimes he had to leave her alone to attend to the business of his opera house. She thought it was funny that the man who owned the opera house—which she assumed he did, since he had built it and he always referred to it as being his—should live underneath it in such a secretive fashion. It made sense that he would occasionally have to go and attend to things on the surface. She didn’t know everything that was involved, because honestly the thought of that kind of respectable mundane business really bored her. There were only two of his duties she was somewhat acquainted with: the letters and the alarms.

The letters were just that: some sort of correspondence that he would write and then deliver. She asked him once and he said they were often instructions on how things ought to be done, and sometimes they were to notify and remind the managers when his salary was due. That did strike her as odd; it seemed that perhaps the owner of the opera should be paying the managers their salaries and not the other way around. But all of this was rather outside her realm of experience.

She knew less still about the alarms. All she knew was that sometimes they would be interrupted by the sound of a bell, and he would have to stop in the middle of playing a song or a game to go and attend to whatever it was. She supposed it might be a signal that he was needed for some business matter. The only thing that gave her pause about that was the frightening glint he would get in his eye. That made her think that the less she knew about it, the better. So she never asked about the alarms. 

She did, however, offer to deliver his letters for him. She so desperately wanted to be useful, and she was very experienced at delivering letters. But he declined. 

“It’s a maze of passageways, this opera house of mine. I designed it that way. You would get lost.” 

She huffed. “I have every street in this city right here,” she tapped her head. “Give me a little time, and I can find anybody and anything. I can! I never forget where anything is. I’m good at finding my way around. You don’t think I could manage one building?”

“I am certain that you could,” he conceded. “But you’re still not well. It would be too much walking and too many drafts.” 

She left it there. Because the truth was, she was already recovered, but neither of them had said anything about it. Well, she didn’t know whether he knew she was better or not. She told herself that he probably did. But she was putting off broaching the subject because she didn’t know what would come next for her. She thought her Maman was probably still in prison. She did want to find out if Gavroche had made it out of the barricade all right, and she was worried about Azelma, too. But finding Azelma would probably mean running into her father. She didn’t care if she never saw him again after that night in the Rue Plumet. She had made the mistake too many times of coming home after staying away a few nights, thinking he would forget whatever he was angry at her for. He never forgot. It didn’t matter how long it had been, it didn’t matter what she did to try to make amends. And those other times were for small things; she’d never done anything so serious as completely prevent their business when they all knew it was a sure bet. She shivered. Even if she avoided her father—and that wouldn’t be the hardest thing, he really wasn’t _that_ good at what he did—she had five other men who were very angry with her.

She’d looked them all in the face that night and told them she wasn’t afraid of them. And she hadn’t been, that night. As she’d contemplated her rather bleak prospects of the future, consisting of nothing but more starving and freezing, she had stood ready to relinquish it all. Now, though, she’d had a taste of living—really living. A warm bed, plenty of food, and someone who was kind and gentle who spent time with her and dreamt up ways to amuse her. And she thought she was helping him, too. So she rather thought she’d prefer to keep living, and avoid anyone who might have any other ideas for her. That is why she continued to avoid the subject of her recovery at all costs. 

But it couldn’t be avoided forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: go read the description of Claquesous in the bit where Hugo introduces the four core members of the Patron-Minette, and just try to tell me that isn’t either evil Batman or the Opera Ghost. I’ll wait.


End file.
